she showed them frequently in a wisenheimer grin.
"Beautiful morning," he offered.
"They're all beautiful," she said.
They paused to watch two early-morning joggers go pounding by. The woman was in her late twenties, tall, erect, lithe, and muscular. Her companion was a potbellied older man, bandy-legged. His face was reddened with effort, his chest pumped in and out as he strained.
"He's ready for cardiac arrest," Professor Craner commented.
"A lot of shitheads in Florida," Gertrude Empt said.
"True," he agreed. "But then there are a lot of shitheads everywhere. One must pick and choose one's companions."
She glanced at him a moment, "If you say so, perfesser."
They sauntered on, stooping to examine a dead blue that had been savaged by barracudas. There was a piece of timber covered with barnacles; a cork float that had once been painted red; a clump of bleached coquinas that weren't worth picking up.
"Looks like we'll get a raise in Social Security next summer," he said.
"Looks like," she said. "The more the merrier."
"How's your health?" he asked suddenly.
She stopped, and so he stopped. She turned to face him, her expression boldly scornful.
"I know you old Florida geezers," she said. "The next thing you'll be telling me about your BM."
"I'd never mention it," he assured her. "I was just making a polite inquiry about how you're feeling."
"Hah," she said.
They strolled on.
"I'm feeling fine," she said finally. "Thanks. You?"
"Tip-top," he said. "You happy living in your son's home?"
"What's this?" she demanded. "Twenty Questions?"
"Just trying to make conversation," he said mildly.
"Am I happy in my son's home?" she repeated. She flipped a palm back and forth. "So-so. Are you happy living in your daughter's home?"
"So-so," he said. "I like Bill. Still, it's not like having my own home."
"I know what you mean, perfesser," she said. "Boy, do I know." -
"I get a pension," he said, staring straight ahead. "Almost four hundred a month. In addition to Social Security."
"I got a nice block of Ma Bell," she countered. "Not a lot, but enough to make me feel independent."
"That's the way I'd like to be," he said. "Independent."
She gazed up at the pellucid sky.
"Npt many cheap rental properties around," she said thoughtfully.
"Not many," he said, nodding. "But when you get off the beach, on the other side of the waterway, there are reasonable places. Some of them not so bad. And sometimes you can work out a deal with a motel on an annual rate. Fve been looking into it/'
She stopped again, and again he stopped. They faced each other challengingly.
"What are you getting at?" she said.
"You," he said.
She stared at him. "What would I want with an old fart like you?"
"Beats the hell out of me," he said.
She laughed and punched his arm lightly.
"You're okay, perfesser. I'll think on it."
"Do that," he urged.
Before they parted, she gave him the brown olive.
7
Saturday morning dawned blunt, the sky oysterish, with a variable wind at fifteen knots. The sea was choppy. Rain clouds scudded across the horizon, and a waterspout was reported off Delray Beach. There was talk of canceling the Hollo ways' cookout.
But then, toward 11:00 A.M ., patches of blue showed, the sun burned through. The temperature rose to 84° F, and pelicans appeared. The wind still gusted, but now it was welcome. Someone said a shark had been sighted off Boynton Beach, but no one got out of the sea.
The festivities started on the beach shortly before noon, mostly for the children, with hot dogs, Cokes, and junk food available on the Holloway terrace. The Holloway and Bending kids were there, of course, and about twenty others from up and down the beach. Most were in the eight-to-fourteen age group. A few younger, a few older.
Wayne Bending, twelve, was the first one out, carrying his short surfboard with a nylon cord to be attached to his ankle. He was wearing cutoff jeans, sun-bleached and sea-faded. He propped his board against a palm and hunkered down in the sand to
"Beautiful morning," he offered.
"They're all beautiful," she said.
They paused to watch two early-morning joggers go pounding by. The woman was in her late twenties, tall, erect, lithe, and muscular. Her companion was a potbellied older man, bandy-legged. His face was reddened with effort, his chest pumped in and out as he strained.
"He's ready for cardiac arrest," Professor Craner commented.
"A lot of shitheads in Florida," Gertrude Empt said.
"True," he agreed. "But then there are a lot of shitheads everywhere. One must pick and choose one's companions."
She glanced at him a moment, "If you say so, perfesser."
They sauntered on, stooping to examine a dead blue that had been savaged by barracudas. There was a piece of timber covered with barnacles; a cork float that had once been painted red; a clump of bleached coquinas that weren't worth picking up.
"Looks like we'll get a raise in Social Security next summer," he said.
"Looks like," she said. "The more the merrier."
"How's your health?" he asked suddenly.
She stopped, and so he stopped. She turned to face him, her expression boldly scornful.
"I know you old Florida geezers," she said. "The next thing you'll be telling me about your BM."
"I'd never mention it," he assured her. "I was just making a polite inquiry about how you're feeling."
"Hah," she said.
They strolled on.
"I'm feeling fine," she said finally. "Thanks. You?"
"Tip-top," he said. "You happy living in your son's home?"
"What's this?" she demanded. "Twenty Questions?"
"Just trying to make conversation," he said mildly.
"Am I happy in my son's home?" she repeated. She flipped a palm back and forth. "So-so. Are you happy living in your daughter's home?"
"So-so," he said. "I like Bill. Still, it's not like having my own home."
"I know what you mean, perfesser," she said. "Boy, do I know." -
"I get a pension," he said, staring straight ahead. "Almost four hundred a month. In addition to Social Security."
"I got a nice block of Ma Bell," she countered. "Not a lot, but enough to make me feel independent."
"That's the way I'd like to be," he said. "Independent."
She gazed up at the pellucid sky.
"Npt many cheap rental properties around," she said thoughtfully.
"Not many," he said, nodding. "But when you get off the beach, on the other side of the waterway, there are reasonable places. Some of them not so bad. And sometimes you can work out a deal with a motel on an annual rate. Fve been looking into it/'
She stopped again, and again he stopped. They faced each other challengingly.
"What are you getting at?" she said.
"You," he said.
She stared at him. "What would I want with an old fart like you?"
"Beats the hell out of me," he said.
She laughed and punched his arm lightly.
"You're okay, perfesser. I'll think on it."
"Do that," he urged.
Before they parted, she gave him the brown olive.
7
Saturday morning dawned blunt, the sky oysterish, with a variable wind at fifteen knots. The sea was choppy. Rain clouds scudded across the horizon, and a waterspout was reported off Delray Beach. There was talk of canceling the Hollo ways' cookout.
But then, toward 11:00 A.M ., patches of blue showed, the sun burned through. The temperature rose to 84° F, and pelicans appeared. The wind still gusted, but now it was welcome. Someone said a shark had been sighted off Boynton Beach, but no one got out of the sea.
The festivities started on the beach shortly before noon, mostly for the children, with hot dogs, Cokes, and junk food available on the Holloway terrace. The Holloway and Bending kids were there, of course, and about twenty others from up and down the beach. Most were in the eight-to-fourteen age group. A few younger, a few older.
Wayne Bending, twelve, was the first one out, carrying his short surfboard with a nylon cord to be attached to his ankle. He was wearing cutoff jeans, sun-bleached and sea-faded. He propped his board against a palm and hunkered down in the sand to
Similar Books
